A Sound in Time
by Alba Aulbath
Summary: Harry's waiting out by Toluca Lake on an errand. Then a car drives into the water.


**Disclaimers and Useless/Useful Stuff to Know:**

I don't own Silent Hill. Never did, never will.

There are some things to briefly know about this particular fic. It's a prequel of sorts to an upcoming story called "Lost Days". This one, in particular, can be seen as a stand alone; it takes place approximately eleven years after the first Silent Hill (Good ending) and just a little bit after Silent Hill 2 (In Water ending).

That's about all that you need to know.

---

The informant is late, and Harry is quickly getting the idea that this is a horrible idea _anyway_. He isn't even quite sure why he's here, other than for better information on the cult, but hanging out by Toluca Lake is one of the worst ideas he can think of. He hasn't returned to this town for years, and he still doesn't want to, but there are things he _needs_ to know.

Supposedly, this man will give that to him.

This man who is terribly late, and Harry is getting anxious and thinking he really, really should be leaving.

Right now. That would be ideal.

Fog isn't everywhere, like it's been before in Silent Hill, but there's a light mist on the top of the lake that still makes him feel even more edgy. He thinks of blaring sirens and radio static, and he sorely wishes he actually brought a weapon with him besides a pocketknife. Not much against the likes of monsters -- and even people.

He's fought both before.

Nervously, he checks his watch again, and almost misses the fact that a car goes sailing over his head and plunges into the lake.

Mostly, it's shock that doesn't allow that description any justice. Literally, a car had just been driven off of the hill and right into the water, and quickly it's sinking.

...For crying out loud, this _town_ does things.

But Harry can't chance it. There might really be a person in there. Probably an accident; part of the roads up the hill don't have railings, and anyone not paying attention can easily just drive right off of there. Wincing a moment at the thought of someone sinking into the lake with their car, he throws off his jacket and runs down the dock.

He's stupid for trying, but he knows he'd never forgive himself if he ran off to get help -- and get this person drowned in the meantime. Screw the informant; he's got better things to do.

He dives into the lake, half expecting it to swallow him up into darkness and make him gag, but it's cold and wet just like normal water, and he sees the car sinking. It's a bit _dreading_ since Harry isn't an especially strong swimmer, nor has he done it in years -- but he pushes himself towards the car door, the passenger side.

Damn, the guy has his windows rolled down all the way. Looks younger than Harry himself, blond hair, green jacket--

He doesn't see anyone else, not that Harry has much time to look. There's only so long that he can hold his breath, and the other man already looks like he's out and no doubt drowning.

Harry grabs onto his sleeve and struggles in the water to pull the younger man out of the sinking car, trying to reach the surface as quickly as he can--

When he does, he _gasps_ for air and drags the other man with him, his muscles already tiring out as he works his way to the docks. Grunting, he shifts his weight onto the wood, pulling up the other man with him, rolling him onto his back.

Not breathing. _Damn_.

He thinks quickly, and barely remembers CPR -- but remembers enough to do it properly, and curses to himself to keep the head tilted back, but not too much, and _do it perfect or you'll screw up_. He's breathing air into the other man, and he works on the compressions, not sure if he's being too gentle or too strong. When Harry leans down to give him more air, he hears him coughing and leans away to give him space.

The man sputters out water and coughs, turning suddenly and curling into himself.

"Hey-- are you all right?" Harry sets a hand to his shoulder.

"Mary?" the younger man groans, clearly still out of it.

...But it occurs to Harry then. He was so sure that there was no one else in the car with this guy. Was there a woman on board, too? "Listen. Was there someone else in the car with you?" Harry asks him, gently shaking his shoulder.

The man's eyes go wide. "Mary?!" he rasps. Then he shoots Harry an enraged glare, pulling himself away. "What did you do?"

"I dragged you out is what I did," Harry responds simply. "Can you remember if someone else was in there with you?"

Though eyes are darting, the younger man's head tilts away and he murmurs, "No."

He feels relieved. A car can be replaced, but... people can't. "Come on. My car's just outside of town, if you're okay to walk."

The man doesn't say anything, so Harry takes it as lack of argument, and therefore agreement.

The walk isn't bad, and Harry reluctantly gives up his dry jacket for the other man, who takes it eagerly around his shoulders. There's something haunted about him, and quite frankly, Harry isn't surprised about that. This is Silent Hill, and there's probably a whole lot to this guy tha the doesn't know about, maybe doesn't want to know about.

So there he is. Soaking wet in the back seat of his car, and Harry tries to think of what to do. He doesn't want... to go to the police, but he should.

Logically speaking, he should. He thinks briefly of Cybil and winces, and thinks more that he doesn't need police from Silent Hill, or Brahms, or anyone. He doesn't want anyone in this area to even know he was here.

So much for that informant. Harry hopes he can live without it.

"Look, um. Sorry, I don't have a change of clothes." Harry turns to look at the other guy in the back seat. "I mean, I can take you to my apartment, but that's a few hours off. You want me to drop you off anywhere?"

Mutely, the blond man shakes his head.

Doesn't want to be found. All right. "My apartment it is, then, I guess." Harry rubs the back of his neck. "Sorry. My name's Harry. How about you?"

A hand isn't offered, nor do their eyes meet. The man is looking out the window, eyes glazed over, but he mutters,

"James."

---

On the drive back to Portland, Harry tries to think of the possibilities. Who is Mary, and what James was doing.

Maybe it was an accident, but that's his... hopeful side. This is Silent Hill, and it's not something as simple as that. Even when Harry had his car accident eleven years ago, it was due to Alessa's hand. In this case, either something forced James off the road, or.

Well, it was by choice.

He's not sure how smart it is, to bring some stranger home, especially since he has a little girl he's raising, but he can't think of what else to do. His last run-in with the police was when Heather was five, because of some cult member trying to snatch her away.

Harry didn't allow it to happen, and the aftermath was self-defense, but.

Regardless, he doesn't need the police to connect him. The Order is careful, and smart.

Harry's worked hard to outsmart them so far. He's got to avoid them, even if it means... nudging over the law a bit.

"So." It's stupid, but he tries for conversation. "What were you doing in Silent Hill?"

James keeps his eyes glued to the window. He hasn't budged at all ever since they took off. "Looking for my wife."

Wife? "Did you find her?"

There's a pause. James turns his head, staring at the back of Harry's seat. "She's dead."

What--? Harry's fingers curl tightly around the steering wheel. He thinks of his own late wife, before even Heather-- "I'm sorry," he blurts out. "Was it her? Mary?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry," Harry can't help but repeat. He _is_ sorry. Is that what made James drive off into the lake? Was it too much to deal with the fact that the person you love was dead? Probably.

Harry had been lucky. He has a daughter. He isn't alone.

For all he knows, maybe James is alone.

---

Maybe that's what causes the offer. Harry should know better, should still be on his guard, but the sympathetic pangs are more than he can bear to control.

He offers James the option to stay for an indefinite amount of time.

James just shrugs at him, but he doesn't oppose. He takes the dry clothes, turns down the offer for dinner, and lingers mostly by the couch.

It's not hard to explain to Heather, who accepts the fact that Daddy is having a sleepover. Heather's had many, and her eyes light up, but there's no late night movies to watch or sleeping bags or anything particularly joyful about it, not the way she expects.

It'd be nice. Something simple would be overwhelmingly beautiful right now.

All there is right now are two very sad men.

Harry offers up his room, but James doesn't take it. He's curled up on the couch, his back to Harry, probably already out like a light. It takes Harry two minutes to fetch a comforter before he tucks Heather in for the night.

He tries to stay up to work, but he can't. Not a chance in hell.

---

Still.

Even after the business in Silent Hill those years ago, even after being attacked by a cult member even more recently, Harry is still trusting of others. Mostly, it's due to hope -- maybe confidence in others. Optimism, what have you. He isn't precisely sure about James, but Harry understands; something bad happened in Silent Hill, and the man just needs time to work it all out. It's going to take patience and time, but Harry is sure it'll be fine.

...But he knows he should have known better than to let his guard down so easily.

It's not exactly a heavy sleep he's in. He's exhausted, barely even dressed appropriately for bed. Jeans are still on and so's the shirt, but he's managed to fling the jacket and shoes somewhere in the room, too tired to care about their placement.

He's dozing, mostly. Half-asleep, too tired enough to not care much about the way he feels something fleetingly brush by the side of his face. Could be dreaming, probably is.

The pressure on the bed comes more as a surprise, the mattress shifting at the additional weight; Harry convinces his eyes to open when he feels knees pressing into his thighs, rendering his legs immobile.

There's breath against his neck and traveling up to his ear, a soft murmur escaping. "Mary."

It's hard to miss. It's James looming over him. Harry starts to open his mouth to speak, but finds instead that he's yelping in surprise, feeling the pillow under his head disappear. Abruptly, it's placed firmly over his face, tight enough to make breathing _impossible_.

What the hell-- what brought _this_ on all of the sudden?!

Kicking is impossible; James has his legs pinned down. Instinctively, his arms reach up and try to pull off the pillow, try to yank it out of the grip of the other man, but it's tight over his face. He gasps against the suffocation, writhing as much as he can against the pressure. It doesn't make James move much, and if anything, the pressure increase.

He can't breathe-- no air. It makes his lungs burn and he's becoming desperate quickly as he tries to gasp ineffectively. Though he knows he's needed a new pillow for a long time, he's really only noticed it _now_; in the midst of his begging need for air, he sucks a feather into his mouth and _gags_--

At best, his hands flail at the air until his fingers curl into the front of James's shirt; the other hand forms into a fist and he manages to punch the side of the man's face. The grip is gone on the pillow, fortunately, and Harry shoves James off the bed.

He twists around, coughing out the feather and at the same time gasping for air. It takes too long to breathe again; he hears James getting back onto his feet, fingers dragging into Harry's scalp and pulling him out of him.

Harry can't even effectively follow after the pull; his feet drag across the floor as he's yanked by his hair. He kicks and struggles blindly. "_James_!" he snaps at the other man, weak on breath still.

Either James doesn't hear him or doesn't care. He shoves Harry by the head, making him yelp as he stumbles against the desk, banging his knees and shins hard enough against the wood to bruise them. Hands are on his wrists and from behind James is shoving him against the desk again, pinning him face-down.

Well, at least he can still breathe, enough to try to speak. "James," Harry manages out, trying to keep his voice steady and calm, trying to keep his patience. "What the hell is going on here?"

James doesn't say anything; there's heavy breathing against Harry's ear, shuddering as he presses up against the older man.

"James--"

The movement is abrupt, but slow; Harry is aware of his own obliviousness, admittedly, but it's difficult to misunderstand the way that James is moving his hips against his backside. It makes a shiver go up his spine and his fingers tighten into fists.

It's... been a ridiculous length of time since he's had any sort of interaction like this, this _personal_--

But this. Isn't normal.

"James!" Harry shouts at him, far more urgently-- hell, he's not groaning at how much harder the other man is grinding up against him now. It's quickly lost being hesitant and slow, and this sort of pressure is agonizing in a completely different way.

It bothers him _worse_ how much he might even like it, just a little.

Only because it's been so long, he thinks defensively. But this isn't okay. He can't be pinned down like this. He starts to twist under James, grunting during the struggle and trying not to moan, feeling just how hard the other man is against him -- even through their jeans.

Harry grits his teeth. "_Stop_," he hisses, more as a warning than anything, but James acts as though he can't even hear him.

An arm twists away from James's grip and he manages to slam his elbow into the blond man's ribcage. Hearing the surprised sound from him, the younger man's grip slackens immediately, allowing Harry to pull away and strike him again across the face before shoving him back, not giving James a single moment to react enough to rebel.

He doesn't like to be rough, but Harry knows to defend himself; he pushes James back enough, just into the open closet before slamming the door shut and keeping a grip on the handle with both hands, pressing his body weight against the door. A wince passes by when he feels the man on the other side try to open with the knob, pushing against the wood to get through.

"Daddy?"

Oh God not right now-- Harry winces and tries to ignore James starting to bang against the door. He can't turn to look at Cher-- Heather, but he expects her to be by the door to his bedroom.

"Honey." Harry strains a smile. "Not right now."

He can hear the fear in her voice. "How come there's banging? Is the bogeyman back?"

"No, no; it's fine. Listen, go downstairs and turn on the TV. Turn it as loud as you'd like, okay? Daddy will be down when he can, I promise. But you stay down there, okay?"

She leaves immediately; he never lets her stay up late, ever, so the opportunity is golden for a kid her age. Almost instantly, Heather is gone and down the stairs. It's just a few minutes later until he hears the TV blaring, on about a commercial for toothpaste.

Harry winces as James slams against the door. Frustrated, the man shouts at him, "_Open it_!"

"That doesn't seem to be the smartest idea right now," Harry says flatly. There's another slam and he moves to try to press back against it-- he almost loses his grip that time. "James, what the hell is--"

Another slam, and it's powerful enough to throw the door open, making Harry stumble back. _Shit_, he thinks, immediately; James gets the advantage and charges him, grabbing for his throat and dragging him down to the floor, slamming the back of Harry's head against it a few times.

His head is pounding, the grip on his neck tightens and air starts to become limited again, he's dizzy, and he feels lips on his, hot and desperate and unrelenting. There's teeth biting him and scraping against him and a tongue invading; he hasn't the mind immediately to try to retaliate. When he starts to move under James, to push him off, he feels the hold on his throat tighten and the other man slams his skull against the floor again.

Lack of air and the room spinning -- he can't manage to do anything but be breathless under James, cursing mentally when he remembers to.

A hand crushes Harry's right one, holding on tightly and pinning him against the floor. He can hardly writhe, hardly _breathe_, and he tries desperately to ignore the sensation of a hot mouth against his own. He hasn't had this kind of contact in what feels like _ages_ -- over a decade since his wife died, God it _has_ been ages.

Slowly, the hand on his throat lightens up, just enough that he can manage to breathe through his nose, not quite panting and can't with James still attacking his mouth. Harry can hardly groan this way, the noise more like a whine to his ears. It's like some kind of signal to James, because hips are pressing against his own again; it's a vicious motion, almost angry the way James is grinding up against him, absolutely merciless.

This isn't right, but shit. There's a good part of Harry that _wants this_.

The mouth on his own pulls away and Harry finds himself almost _wheezing_ for air; James is breathing into his ear, "_Mary_."

Ridiculous. All of this, all of this assault, and Harry feels a pang of horrid pity for the other man.

He hears it again, the name _Mary_ being whispered as James presses his mouth against his neck, fingers slowly removing themselves and pressing instead onto Harry's shoulders. Damn it -- he has no idea what to do. He doesn't think he can seriously shove away James at this point, either because selfishly Harry is enjoying the attention he hasn't gotten for years, or because he's certain that refusing James will end in _breaking_ him somehow.

As if James isn't already broken.

It actually starts to get _painful_ when James grabs onto his hips and just grinds mercilessly against him; Harry curses softly and grabs onto the other man's arm tightly, the other hand still being crushed under the younger man's grip. He can't writhe, can't move under James -- the pressure is enough to keep Harry pinned, but just enough space that James can move how he wants. He doesn't fight it, and can only groan when he feels how hard he's gotten in such a short amount of time.

There's another curse from him when James suddenly turns him over onto his stomach. The movement is sharp and surprising enough that Harry smacks his chin against the floor; he hisses in pain and annoyance, then shivers as the man over him starts to rock against his ass, like before.

Damn it, as much as he wants this-- "_James_," Harry manages through his grit teeth. "I can't--" He jerks, not expecting a hand to squeeze his backside. "_James_! Cheryl's--"

No more words manage to tumble out; James isn't letting him talk, not the way he's moving against Harry and squeezing him in places that makes him pant and moan more than he thinks that anyone's made him -- which is just _ridiculous_, he's never done this with a man before, what the hell.

He feels hands working the button and zipper to his jeans, feeling them get folded down -- shit. How much of James even realizes that Harry _isn't_ his wife? He grits his teeth and shudders as he hears James undo the fastenings to his own pair.

"James," Harry manages to groan out. Damn it, he's not ready for this, but he doesn't think he can just stop now, either. He starts to shift under James, then grunts at the way a hand slams down on the back of his head, pushing his face to the floor. "_Damn it_, James -- just need to get to my desk." The pressure doesn't relieve itself and Harry gives an annoyed sound. "Second drawer closest to you."

Control issues. Good Lord. Harry gives him an irritated look from out of the corner of his eye, but it doesn't seem as if James is paying attention much. He's moving things around in the drawer until he can manage to find a bottle of oil. He can't help but groan a bit in frustration before he speaks up.

"Further. Nn." Hell, he was still _hard_. "In the back. All right?"

There's another shuffling sound; Harry can't see too well, not with the way James keeps his head forced down like that. He curls his fingers into tight fists, trying not to grumble too loudly until he feels the hands move away from him.

A smart man would take advantage of this moment to escape, Harry expects. Or a really dumb man. He can't think of it logically. Nothing's been _logical_, not since Silent Hill, and he figures that's why James is as messed up as he is. Harry can't help but feel sorry for him. In spite of the fact that James clearly needs some mental help, Harry just can't say _no_.

He thinks of Lisa, refusing her when she needed him the most.

He thinks of Cybil, shooting her down in self-defense.

He even thinks of Kaufmann, allowing him to be pulled down into the depths of Silent Hill.

Harry doesn't think there's any part of him that can refuse James right now, even if it'd be the smartest thing to do, the thing he should do to signal that this isn't okay at all -- but he _just can't_. The very idea of shoving away someone else for his own well-being just isn't sitting well at all.

The feeling of penetration is _not_ something he's experimented with before, hadn't even remotely considered. Though James has been well lubricated and honestly Harry _can_ feel the rubber of the condom, it still _burns_ in a way. This sensation is not one he knows, and he can't help but groan at the slow movement inside of him.

Cheryl's downstairs, watching TV, and he seriously hope she _stays_ there and can't hear a damn thing upstairs.

He feels fingers dragging across his stomach and chest, the other man looming over his back and groaning _Mary_ into his ear. Harry finally figures that James really is lost in his own delusion, knowing that the other man is touching him everywhere except for the most obvious part of him that isn't a woman. He can't figure out for himself if it's insulting or if he just pities James all the more during this. Regardless, the touches are overwhelming, and Harry grits his teeth when he feels James jerk a little harder inside of him.

There's the sensation of being stretched beyond belief, that it's too much to take in and part of him wants to try to shove James away, but he knows better than that. It'd be damaging, and there's the even larger portion inside of Harry that doesn't _want_ this to end, wants this badly.

It's only a matter of time until the younger man succeeds in pressing all the way inside, and yet it still feels like it doesn't end and won't ever. Just a little faster, back and forth, James moves inside of him. It makes Harry moan in ways he's never heard himself, and he bites his wrist to keep from making too much noise.

It doesn't stay that way, when James rocks a little harder and hits _something_ inside of Harry, enough to make the older man yelp and gasp in surprise. _Damn it_ what the hell is that -- and God does he have to do it _again?_ He bites down more firmly on his hand, trying not to scream in pleasure at that _spot_ James is no doubt purposefully grinding against.

_God damn him._

The same name keeps getting groaned, for the most part. _Mary Mary Mary_ and he thinks he's getting a little delusional himself when he swears he hears Harry getting slipped in there.

Just how much of James is even _there?_

So damned lost in this whole thing, Harry can't even tell who comes first and who goes last. All he can tell is at some point he feels himself getting tense, and at the same time overwhelming relief -- and that James doesn't immediately stop bucking inside of him, just keeps moving until he's done.

It's a disturbing moment of silence between them, besides the panting. Harry rests his forehead on the floor, part of him still not believing what he's just allowed -- but he doesn't think he regrets it, and that's the most frightening part of all.

James pulls out, and it's almost a bit painful. Though Harry's experienced worse things, it's still been eleven years since Silent Hill for him and those physical pains are almost forgotten. It's the mental ones that scar most, anyway.

Abruptly, Harry feels his shoulders getting grabbed and he's being turned over. He curses when he feels his head slamming against the floor again and he winced when his back feels the wet spot he's left on the floor, his shirt probably soaking it up. This is filthy and awful and he still sort of likes it.

He's staring up at James, who looks mystified, as if he's not entirely sure what happened.

"Mary?" James tries. Harry winces.

"Uh. No."

Fingers start to explore his face, as if that's going to help James figure out whether or not this is dead wife or not, as if just _looking_ at Harry isn't enough, as if just having fucked him hadn't been enough to tell him that this is clearly not even a woman.

Absently, still with wide eyes, James asks, "Who's Cheryl?"

...Shit. "What?" Harry replies, a little shaky, feeling his stomach sink.

"You mentioned 'Cheryl'."

_Shit_. "Did I?" Harry says, as if that's the smartest thing to say at the moment. Damn it, did he say 'Cheryl'? It's supposed to be 'Heather'. They're hiding from that insane cult and he said Cheryl and not Heather and it's not like he really knows what James is up to, would he say anything to them, does he even know the cult exists--?

"Yeah." The way James is touching his face and hair is almost sort of gentle. Harry guesses that if he had been so light before instead of the odd bout of violence, he might have allowed this even faster -- but that was then, this is now.

"Just an old memory," Harry murmurs, and that should be enough. It seems to be, because James isn't bothering with the name anymore.

After all, there's something more concerning than Harry having mentioned Cheryl; there's the realization dawning on James's face, his eyes managing to go wider as he touches Harry's face. Something's gone wrong, and Harry feels the fingers trembling before James just about collapses on top of him; he grunts uncomfortably, having enough pain in his backside as it is without needing the additional weight.

But he can't complain, because James is _sobbing_ into his shoulder and screaming _Mary_ against him.

Damn it. Harry winces and manages to sit up until he finds the desk to sit against, awkwardly placing his arm around the other man's shoulders. He definitely can't shove James off, not like this.

---

"Hey, honey." Harry doesn't hide how tired he sounds when he finally comes down the stairs, but he tries to keep himself as composed as possible. The TV is blaring and it makes his ears hurt, but he doesn't tell Heather to turn it down.

She gets on her knees while sitting on the couch, turning to look at him, worried. "Daddy, you're walking funny."

Damn, did she have to say that-- it's not like she knows any better, but still. "I'm fine; Daddy just walked into his desk on accident." He doesn't wince when she gets off the couch and hugs him tight. He's exhausted in more ways than one, but he doesn't brush her off; he holds onto her.

"Were you scared?" Harry asks faintly.

"Only a little," Heather replies, smiling up at him. "What were you doin'?"

"Moving stuff around in my room. Listen, you get yourself to bed now, okay?"

"Okay! Good night, Daddy."

She doesn't question it, doesn't doubt the words her father's given her. Heather just goes right to her bedroom, and Harry shuffles around on the couch to find the remote and turn off the television.

Several times after Silent Hill, he hoped that he'd have escaped it, but it seems to chase after him and other people. Once touched, it will never leave you, as if you're forever tainted.

He and James are probably living proof of that.

Harry closes his eyes and sighs. He's given up his bed for James and hopes that's the smart decision, because he has no will to try to venture back upstairs at all. He climbs onto the couch, moving gingerly, and curls up on his side.

God damn. What a night.

---

And when he wakes up, it's far too early. The sun is barely even shining through the window. His eyes are too heavy, his body hurts -- some places more than others -- and he thinks he'd rather just sleep the entire day away without thinking about anything from yesterday.

But he knows he can't. He thinks of Silent Hill, everything and nothing from it, James, and a woman he doesn't know named Mary.

Whatever happened, it weighs on James, dragging him under.

Harry gets the sense that he's too helpless to do anything about it to help, that it's going to just be that way, that James will gladly immerse himself into his misery and delusion.

Again, Harry is too damned helpless to do a thing.

Damn it.

He gets up and winces, not immediately able to get off of the couch. There's coffee to be had, and breakfast to make.

Harry's not even on his second mug when he hears footsteps too heavy to belong to an eleven-year-old girl approaching the kitchen. For a moment, he tenses -- and remembers properly that it's James. That in itself is stressful, but there are worse things.

At the hall connecting the dining room to the kitchen, James stands there. He's wearing the clothes he was yesterday, now dried; he's ruffled and could use some downtime, but Harry is getting the feeling it won't happen. At the very least, the way the other man is looking at James doesn't suggest the same kind of behavior as when Harry first pulled him out of the lake.

There's more of a look to him than being lost. There's definitely guilt, and Harry feels responsible for that. Maybe he _should_ have shoved James away, maybe he should have belted him, knock him away, beat it into him what they'd been doing was _wrong_, but he didn't have the will. Had all the chances, didn't have the spine.

"I get the feeling you're not going to stay," Harry says awkwardly.

James frowns at him. "I didn't think you'd want me to."

"It wouldn't bother me." Though Harry isn't completely sure if that's the truth.

"Then I don't want _me_ to." James shakes his head. "What I did--"

Harry cuts him off, a little more sharply than he intends to, "I could have stopped you. But I decided not to. All right?"

James is getting closer to him; it's not threatening, like it'd almost been last night, not the way he was carrying himself and soaked in delusions. "Fine. But I'm still not staying. I just..."

"I can't help you." That bothers Harry. But he knows it to be true.

"No." James doesn't quite smile; it looks like a wince. "It'd be nice, if I could just wave my hands and make it all better, wouldn't it...?"

Yeah. It really would be. Harry doesn't say anything, though.

"Hey. Harry."

He lifts his head, hearing his name. It's sudden, but not the vicious way it was thrown at him like last night. It's hesitant, it's unsure, and Harry's thinking that's maybe more like James than what he met in his bedroom. The kiss is slow, but it's still hot when he can taste a mouth not his own, and the way he feels a tongue licking at the insides of his teeth and gums. It makes him shiver, and it reminds him of far too much.

The other mouth is gone, and James gently pats his shoulder. "Thanks for trying to help me."

He walks out. Harry feels a headache coming on.

He holds his head, and it comes to him, slamming onto his shoulders almost painfully. He hates being so helpless. It makes him honestly question if he can keep raising a child, if he can take care of her, protect Heather -- why is it so hard, and so easy to do? And why can't he damn well do it for anyone else who's ever needed his help?

The offer was never closed, he tells himself firmly.

If James ever turns around, it's still there. It's still there--

But it's just as well, and he knows there's no chance. James has already left, and it's just Harry and a cup of coffee getting cold, and even _that_ is too damned much.


End file.
